Les Paul
in his arms, he
cradles
Black Beauty, she
sings
lofty phrases, poetry
his deft left hand
strokes
her ebony neck, she
breathes
polyphonic harmonies
and as her soulful
aria soars
and fills the air
with muted tones,
he lives forgotten
memories…
and the crowd sways
to the legend’s song,
the ragtime rhythm
catching on
as feet tap, fingers
snap
it’s a hit, and
everyone mouths the
simple words
that tell the tale of
every heart…
and as he plays the
final note,
the call goes out
again for more;
and so he smiles that
knowing smile,
and strums another
op’ning chord --
neon lights slowly
dim
the spotlight’s his,
and
every eye is set on
him
he leans into the
microphone,
names the tune --
this stage
is fully his, and his
alone
and as the lively
chorus breaks
and pours into the
quiet streets,
the dormant city
night awakes…
and once again it’s
‘53, and
he’s sitting on top
of the world,
in his proper element
as four, five, maybe
six generations
mix and mingle ‘round
the stage --
‘cause he’s a legend,
and they know
that in their fondest
memories
this night will never
die.
-- c.noel, circa 2010
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